Cuddy's 
Baby 


MARGARET  HILL  McCARTER 


CUDDY'S  BABY 


A  Story  of  Kansas  Folks 


MARGARET  HILL  McCARTER 


tfi 


Crane  OS,  Company,  Publishers 

Topeka,  Kansas 

1907 


Copyright  1907,  by  CRANE  &  COMPANY, 
Topeka,  Kansas. 


'CUDDY'S  BABY." 


Ota  William  ifttl 


'Who  first  invented  the  name  of 
"  CUDDY." 


"There's  a  breathless  hush  in  the  Close  tonight — 

Ten  to  make  and  the  match  to  win — 
A  bumping  pitch  and  a  blinding  light, 
An  hour  to  play  and  the  last  man  in. 
And  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  a  ribboned  coat, 

Or  the  selfish  hope  of  a  season's  fame, 
But  his  Captain's  hand  on  his  shoulder  smote — 
'Play  up!   play  up!   and  play  the  game !'' 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 

OCK  Chalk!  Jay  Hawk! 
K.  U-o-o-o!"  The  long  vi- 
brant volume  of  voices  rolled 
out  over  the  prairie,  dying 
away  in  a  diffusion  of  atoms 
of  sound  with  atoms  of  si- 
lence. "Rock  Chalk!  Jay 
Hawk!  K.  U-o-o-o!"  Again 
and  again  it  rose  increasingly  with  the 
swelling  waves  of  air  and  pulsed  out 
softly  into  that  weird  cadence  that 
carries  "the  lost  chord"  in  its  ebbing 
tones.  The  November  day  was  clear 
and  still.  The  winds  of  heaven  moved 
gently,  and  the  landscape  lay  under 
the  benediction  of  quietness.  It  was 
one  of  the  last  days  of  a  gorgeous  In- 
dian summer  in  Kansas  that  more 
than  makes  up  for  the  lack  of  the  beau- 
tiful foliage  tints  of  the  Eastern  States 
in  the  resplendent  richness  of  its  skies 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

and  the  soft  indeterminate  hues  of  its 
broad  reach  of  distances.  The  late 
afternoon  sun  was  slipping  down  the 
west  into  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with 
fire. 

Out  beyond  the  little  city,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  hill-slope,  was  an  ath- 
letic field  where  on  this  November 
afternoon  the  grand-stand  was  packed, 
and  the  open  spaces  lined  with  an  ex- 
pectant crowd  watching  a  great  foot- 
ball struggle.  It  was  in  the  earlier 
years  of  that  game's  history,  and  en- 
thusiasm over  it  was  one  of  the  newer 
emotions,  but  it  was  none  the  less 
abundant  on  that  account.  The  day 
before,  a  high  wind  had  carried  down 
a  long  section  of  fence  screen  built 
above  the  tight  ground  fence  to  shut 
off  the  view  of  the  park  from  the  hill- 
slope  up  which  the  roadway  ran.  A 
jam  of  buggies,  carriages,  and  farm 
wagons  (there  were  no  automobiles 
then)  filled  the  road,  leaving  no  space 
for  those  who  would  drive  on  their 
way.  Caught  in  the  jam  was  an  old 
one-horse  wagon  whose  driver,  a  plain 
farmer,  would  have  hurried  on.  He 
had  a  good-natured,  patient  face  where 
the  lines  disappointment  and  failure 
had  graven  had  not  barred  out  de- 
termination and  hope.  Finding  no 
way  out  of  the  crowd  whose  interest 

8 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

made  them  forget  everything  else,  the 
man  in  the  wagon  turned  to  his  wife 
sitting  beside  him. 

"We  may  just  as  well  wait,  mother," 
he  said  cheerily.  "This  is  one  of 
them  football  games  the  University's 
goin'  wild  about.  Looks  like  prize- 
fightin'  to  me.  If  that's  eddication  I 
don't  want  none.  Them  colleges  has 
both  come  here  to  play  today  on  ac- 
count of  all  gettin'  to  go  to  the  opery 
tonight  an'  hearin'  that  great  singer. 
I'll  never  tell  you  her  name." 

"It's  not  eddication,  Joe  Ferine," 
replied  his  wife.  "It's  anything  but 
that,  it  seems  to  me.  I  don't  like  to 
see  it,  and  yit  it's  fascinatin',  too." 

"Neither  do  I,  an'  I  want  to  be 
gittin'  home,  but  we'll  have  to  wait." 

He  settled  himself,  patiently  indif- 
ferent to  the  game,  and  began  to  study 
the  people  in  the  variety  of  vehicles 
about  him.  Mrs.  Ferine  did  the  same. 
Just  a  poor  farmer  and  his  wife  getting 
home  from  a  trip  to  town. 

Hard  work  had  made  them  both 
look  older  than  they  really  were — 
the  hard  work  the  Kansas  farmers 
knew  who  struggled  to  make  a  home 
for  themselves  in  the  time  when  the  raw 
beginnings  of  the  State,  though  past 
its  days  of  ruffianism,  required  every 
man  to  be  a  hero.  Seated  between  the 


C  U  D  D  Y'S    BABY 

two  was  little  Harold  Ferine,  a  sturdy 
baby-boy  of  three  and  a  half  years. 
His  cheeks  were  rosy,  his  fair  hair 
curled  softly  about  his  head,  his  eyes 
were  deeply  blue  like  his  mother's. 
In  fact,  his  whole  face  was  hers  recast 
in  baby  mold.  With  wide-open  eyes 
he  watched  the  game,  seeing  every 
little  detail  as  only  a  child  can  see. 
It  was  so  utterly  strange  to  him,  this 
crowded  grand -stand,  the  side-lines 
black  with  spectators,  and  in  the  open 
the  contending  teams  forging  back  and 
forth  across  the  gridiron  spaces. 

"Rock  Chalk!  Jay  Hawk!  K.  U- 
o-o!"  again  and  again  the  shout 
went  up  with  its  tremendous  surge  of 
sound. 

"What  for  they  say  'at?"  asked  the 
little  one. 

"Oh,  that's  to  keep  their  courage 
up,  I  guess,  Baby,  and  help  them  to 
win,"  answered  his  mother,  more  to 
satisfy  him  than  from  any  definite 
knowledge. 

"Is  they  p'ayin'  bat  man?"  he 
questioned. 

"No,  no,  they  are  playin'  football, 
not  black  man." 

Baby  Harold  watched  more  intently 
than  ever,  noting  how,  every  time  the 
boys  from  the  far  side  were  driven 
back  ever  so  little,  the  grand-stand 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

broke  into  that  fierce,  fascinating  call. 
His  heart  began  to  beat  in  sympathy 
with  them.  Unconsciously  he  shoved 
with  all  the  strength  of  his  tiny  body 
against  his  mother,  as  if  he  would 
help  to  hold  back  this  enemy  to  "Rock 
Chalk."  Closer  and  closer  the  Uni- 
versity's opponents  came,  fighting  foot 
by  foot  for  the  space.  Again  and 
again  the  supporters  gave  their  cry  of 
cheer  and  encouragement,  till  sud- 
denly all  was  still.  Nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  side  of  the  field  next  to  the  high 
roadway  the  big  fellows  were  driven, 
and  the  people  held  their  breath. 

"Looks  like  K.  U.'s  goin'  under," 
said  a  big  man  standing  up  in  a  hay- 
wagon,  turning  to  the  shorter  ones 
below  him. 

Baby  Ferine 's  heart  gave  a  great 
throb.  He  had  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  game.  He  wondered  why  the 
crowd  did  not  call  now  when  there  was 
such  need  for  it.  He  listened  breath- 
less for  their  cry,  and  they  would  not 
give  it.  It  was  the  supreme  moment. 
The  University  eleven  were  braced  for 
their  last  stand.  There  was  a  death- 
like stillness.  The  very  air  was  mo- 
tionless. 

Suddenly  a  clear  baby  voice  rang 
out  so  sweet  and  shrill  that  from  its 
height  on  the  hill-slope  it  even  reached 


C  U  D  D  Y'S    BABY 

the  breathless  spectators  far  across  the 
field. 

"Wot  Chot !    Jay  Haut !    Ta  O-o ! " 

The  effect  was  magical.  The  crowd 
went  wild.  The  grand-stand  rocked 
and  the  fences  swayed  with  the  surging 
shouts  of  those  pressed  against  them. 
Down  the  field  went  the  K.  U.  men, 
fierce  and  furious.  Defeat  was  turn- 
ing to  victory.  The  wagons  on  the 
roadway  shifted,  and  Joe  Ferine,  see- 
ing an  opening,  hurried  his  horse 
through  it  and  in  a  minute  or  two  he 
was  out  of  the  jam  and  on  the  way 
toward  home. 

"I  ist  wanted  to  help,"  said  Baby 
Harold,  turning  to  his  mother. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  done  it,  Baby," 
chuckled  Joe.  "You'll  have  to  go  to 
the  University  when  you  grow  up." 

"What's  the  Vus'ty,  Mamma?" 
asked  Baby. 

"It's  a  place  where  you  yell  'Rock 
Chalk'  if  you  want  to  git  through," 
said  his  father,  laughing. 

But  Mrs.  Perine's  face  had  a  serious 
look. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  it  after-while, 
Baby,"  she  said. 

The  wagon  rattled  along  the  smooth 
road  on  to  the  swell  known  as  Basher's 
Hill,  from  the  top  of  which  the  whole 
countryside  unrolled  in  the  grandeur 

12 


C  U  DD  Y  '  S    BABY 

of  a  rose-tinged  prairie  twilight.  As 
the  November  evening  grew  chill,  Baby 
Harold  nestled  down  between  his  father 
and  mother,  who  drew  the  old  quilt 
that  served  for  a  lap-robe  snugly 
about  him.  With  childish  joy  he 
crowed  and  prattled,  while  from  his 
little  muffied-up  space  every  now  and 
then  came  the  glad  outburst : 

1 '  Wot  Chot !  Jay  Haut !  Ta  O-o ! " 
Over  the  divide  and  down  the  long 
south  slope  went  the  Perines,  coming 
at  the  dusk  of  evening  to  the  poor  little 
farm-house  nestling  under  the  shelter 
of  tall  cottonwoods  and  leaf -stripped 
elms.  There  were  masses  of  white 
and  gold  chrysanthemums  about  the 
kitchen  door.  The  dead  vines  at  the 
windows  and  over  the  crazy  little 
front  veranda  and  the  brown  stalks 
and  withered  leaves  in  their  rude  beds 
gave  ample  proof  of 

"The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
That  equals  cot  and  palace," 

and  that  must  have  made  a  summer- 
time beauty  about  the  otherwise  bar- 
ren and  humble  surroundings  of  a 
barren  and  comfortless  home. 

In  the  late  '70*3  Joe  Ferine  and  his 
wife  had  come  with  their  two  little 
boys  to  Kansas.  They  had  little  cap- 
ital beside  youth  and  health  and  am- 
bition. They  had  little  education  in 

13 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

books,  for  both  had  come  from  hard- 
working families,  where  opportunities 
were  few.  But  they  were  intelligent, 
honest,  cheerful,  and  God-fearing ;  and 
combining  with  these  a  patient  in- 
dustry, they  were  representatives  of  a 
class  that  first  tilled  the  Kansas  soil 
and  by  their  own  sacrifice  sent  out 
a  generation  of  abler  men  and  women 
to  follow  them. 

The  quarter-section  of  land  the  Pe- 
rines  had  preempted  had  the  inevitable 
mortgage  nailed  fast  to  it,  and  Joe 
had  little  money  to  pay  for  help  and 
little  time  for  anything  but  the  grind 
of  labor.  And  while  annual  cultiva- 
tion was  helping  the  soil  to  surer  crops, 
the  growing  bunch  of  cattle  promised 
a  little  cut  in  the  mortgage,  and  the 
hay  in  the  upland  ricks  would  pay  a 
portion  of  the  December  taxes,  it  was 
all  a  slow,  back-breaking  business,  and 
only  Joe  Ferine 's  spirit  of  determina- 
tion kept  him  sometimes  from  utter 
defeat. 

"When  we  git  the  land  clear  we'll 
fix  up  the  house,  Mother,"  Joe  would 
say  encouragingly,  and  his  wife  would 
smile  hopefully. 

Mrs.  Ferine  had  a  face  an  artist 
could  have  made  into  a  Madonna  on 
canvas,  had  she  only  been  reared  in 
the  bounds  of  luxury.  Deep -blue  eyes, 

14 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

wavy  brown  hair,  and  a  fair  clear  skin ; 
there  was  an  innate  refinement  about 
her,  a  sweetness  of  expression,  a  quick 
intelligence.  Some  women  there  are 
who  make  any  place  look  more  in- 
teresting. Mrs.  Ferine  was  such  a 
woman.  There  was  a  cleanliness  about 
her,  and  a  personality  that  made  one 
somehow,  feel  her  presence.  But  her 
manner  was  simple,  and  her  dress 
was  the  plain  home-sewed  garment  of 
the  Kansas  country-woman  before  the 
days  of  R.  F.  D.s  and  rural  telephones 
and  King-dragged  roads,  and  low- 
priced  good  magazines.  She  had  de- 
termination, too,  as  well  as  her  hus- 
band, but  an  inborn  love  of  beautiful 
things,  which  she  could  not  have, 
made  a  void  in  her  life  of  which  he 
never  dreamed.  So,  busy  as  she  was, 
she  trained  her  vines  and  filled  her 
dooryard  with  flowers,  and  patiently 
replanted  what  the  chickens  scratched 
out,  and  worked  and  waited,  looking 
forward  to  the  time  when  a  better 
house  and  better  fences  and  bluegrass 
and  flowers,  and  a  little  leisure  for 
books,  of  which  she  was  fond,  might 
make  life  more  comfortable. 

The  winter  after  Harold  was  born 
had  been  a  bitterly  cold  one  in  Kansas, 
and  the  Ferine  home  was  not  thick- 
walled  against  it.  The  earlier  builders 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

in  the  West  were  deceived  by  the  warm 
springs  and  hot  summers  and  late  mild 
autumns  into  the  belief  that  winters 
were  never  severe.  So  they  built 
poorly,  both  for  themselves  and  their 
stock.  But  there  was  more  than  cold 
that  invaded  the  little  dwelling  under 
the  cottonwoods  that  winter.  Pneu- 
monia came  also,  and  one  black  day 
when  the  sunshine  lay  like  a  mockery 
on  the  desolate  prairies  the  kindly 
neighbors  had  gone  with  the  poor 
father  and  mother  to  where  in  the  new 
graveyard  a  wide  short  grave  opened 
to  receive  two  little  forms,  and  only 
Baby  Harold  was  left  in  the  dreary 
Ferine  home.  How  his  parents  feared 
for  him  and  clung  to  him!  But  he 
grew  chubby  and  sturdy,  filling  the 
house  with  sunshine  as  only  a  baby 
can.  Nothing  troubled  him.  No  dis- 
ease could  fasten  on  him.  He  was  the 
joy  of  their  lives,  the  blessing  of  the 
days  when  heart-break  slowly  gives 
place  to  resignation. 

On  this  November  evening  after 
Baby  had  watched  his  first  college 
game,  he  trotted  to  and  fro  after  his 
mother  as  she  prepared  supper. 

"What's  a  vus'ty,  Mamma?"  he 
asked  again. 

"Oh,  it's  something  nice,"  replied 
his  mother,  busy  with  her  duties. 

16 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

"I  wish  I  had  a  vus'ty.  Tould  I 
eat  it,  or  play  wiz  it?  Is  it  pwetty? 
What  is  a  vus'ty?  'Wot  Chot,  Jay 
Haut,  Ta  O-o,'"  so  he  prattled  on. 
"Tell  me  about  the  vus'ty.  I  do 
want  to  know." 

But  the  many  evening  chores  were 
crowding  her,  so  Baby  left  her  for  a 
little  while.  At  supper  in  his  high 
chair,  as  soon  as  his  father  had  asked 
the  blessing,  he  broke  out  in  his  high, 
clear  baby  voice,  with  the  new  words 
he  had  learned. 

"Baby  will  be  a  singer,  some  day, 
like  you,  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Ferine,  noting 
the  sweetness  and  volume  of  voice 
with  which  her  darling  repeated  the 
call  first  heard  that  day  by  the  side  of 
the  football  field. 

Joe  Ferine  was  a  born  singer.  His 
clear  tenor  voice  had  been  the  greatest 
help  the  little  school-house  church  had 
known.  He  had  never  had  any  train- 
ing outside  of  the  rural  singing-schools 
of  his  boyhood.  But  there  was  a  rich 
fullness  in  his  tones  not  often  heard  in 
the  tenor  voice.  His  baby  was  al- 
ready learning  to  sing — and  his  voice 
had  that  sweet  magnetic  tone  that 
makes  one  listen. 

It  was  late  that  night  before  the 
chores  were  all  done,  and  the  little 
family  sat  for  a  brief  time  about  the 

17 


CU  DD  F'S    BABY 

kitchen  stove.  Baby  was  close  in  his 
mother's  arms,  his  chubby  hands  now 
and  then  stroking  her  cheeks. 

"What's  a  vus'ty,  Cuddy-Mamma  ?" 
he  asked  softly.  That  was  the  baby 
name  by  which  he  loved  to  call  her 
when  he  was  cuddled  in  her  arms  at 
night. 

"Baby  wouldn't  understand,"  she 
said.  "The  University  is  for  boys 
when  they  are  big.  It  makes  'em 
know  lots  of  things." 

"How  to  p'ay  bat  man  way  down 
by  the  bid  fence  ? "  he  queried. 

"Yes,  and  learn  books." 

' '  Pitty  pitcher  books  ? ' ' 

"Some  of  them,  maybe,"  said  his 
mother. 

"May  I  have  a  vus'ty  when  I  det  a 
bid  man,  an'  p'ay  bat  man  wiz  bid 
mens,  an'  have  books,  an'  say  'Wot 
Chot,  Jay  Haut,  Ta  O-o'  ?" 

His  mother  looked  at  him  thought- 
fully. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Baby.  The  Uni- 
versity is  for  folks  that  have  money." 
The  weight  of  poverty  was  on  her  soul 
as  she  spoke.  "I  wish  you  could  go, 
but  I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  no,"  broke  in  his  father,  "you'll 
be  papa's  big  boy  an'  plow  an'  herd  the 
cattle  an'  cut  the  hay.  You  can  drive 


18 


C  U  D  D  Y  '5    BABY 

two  horses.  You  don't  want  no  Uni- 
versity." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Baby  with  quiver- 
ing lip.  "I  do  want  a  vus'ty,  Papa. 
Why  tan't  I  have  a  vus'ty,  Cuddy- 
Mamma?  An'  when  sompin'  doin'  to 
det  me  I'll  ist  yell  'Wot  Chot!  Wot 
Chot ! '  an'  wun  fast  away.  An'  when 
I'm  'fwaid  in  the  bid  old  dark  I'll  ist 
say  'Ta  Oo!'  an'  you'll  hear  me  an' 
help  me.  I  want  a  vus'ty,  Cuddy." 

"Poor  little  feller,"  said  Joe. 
"Don't  cry.  You  will  be  Papa's  nice 
big  boy,  an'  maybe — who  knows?" 
He  looked  at  his  wife.  "Our  boy 
might  some  day  be  a  scholar." 

A  look  of  love  shone  in  the  mother's 
eyes.  A  shadowy  hope  for  the  im- 
possible things.  The  long  mortgage 
debt,  the  taxes  and  interest,  the 
stretching  of  every  penny  that  did  not 
allow  even  the  necessities  of  life,  how 
could  schooling  that  cost  money  ever 
be  their  baby's  portion?  But  the 
mother-love  was  too  strong  to  disap- 
point her  child. 

"We'll  see,  Baby,  we'll  see  when 
you  are  bigger." 

They  were  too  honest  to  promise 
even  so  vague  a  thing  as  this,  merely 
to  quiet  the  little  one's  whim. 

It  was  still  early  for  city  folks  to 
retire  when  Joe  Perine  opened  the 

19 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

Bible  and  read  a  Psalm.  Baby  was 
nodding  before  the  reading  was  fin- 
ished. He  stumbled  through  his  ' '  Now 
I  lay  me,"  and  cuddled  down  in  his 
poor  little  crib  by  his  mother's  bed. 
Opening  his  sleepy  eyes  a  moment,  he 
smiled  up  at  her  and  put  up  his  rosy 
lips  for  her  good-night  kiss. 

"Wot  Chot,  Jay  Haut,  Ta  O-o,"  he 
murmured  sleepily. 

A  little  later  the  light  went  out  in 
the  Ferine  home,  but  somehow  the 
mother  could  not  sleep.  Tired  as  she 
was  with  her  long  ride  in  the  autumn 
air,  and  the  excitement  a  trip  to  town 
brings  to  the  humble  country  folk,  her 
mind  would  not  lose  its  grip  on  con- 
sciousness. The  game  with  its  strange 
new  appointments  to  her  kept  pictur- 
ing itself  out  again  and  again,  and 
mingled  with  it  was  the  thought  of 
Baby.  She  reached  out  to  his  crib 
and  felt  his  warm  cheek  and  moist 
curls.  He  was  so  dear  to  her. 

At  length  she  fell  asleep,  and 
dreamed  and  dreamed.  And  always 
it  was  the  same  thing — the  game,  the 
hoarse  college  yell  resounding  in  her 
ears,  the  struggle  across  the  field,  and 
mingled  with  it  all  was  her  own  in- 
tense desire  for  her  baby  to  go  to 
school,  and  always  the  word  came 
back:  she  must  climb  a  high  hill  be- 

20 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

ore  her,  first.  That  done,  he  could 
go  to  college.  She  tried  to  climb. 
She  fell,  but  rose  again,  and  stumbled 
on.  Then  she  was  at  the  game  again, 
and  again  she  wished  her  boy  might  go 
to  college,  and  again  the  hill  must  be 
climbed. 

In  the  pink  light  of  dawn  she  awoke. 
Baby  Harold  had  crept  into  bed  be- 
side her,  and  was  softly  kissing  her 
cheek. 

"Let  me  cuddle  in  wiz  you.  You 
is  my  own  Cuddy.  I'm  doin'  to  have 
a  vus'ty  some  day,  ain't  I,  Mamma?" 
he  said  cooingly,  and  nestling  in  her 
arms  he  fell  asleep. 


21 


THE  CLOUD-BURST 

"Nobody  knew  how  the  fisherman  brown, 
With  a  look  of  despair  that  was  half  a  frown, 
Faced  his  fate  on  that  fearful  night, 
Faced  the  mad  billows  with  hunger  white, 
Just  within  hail  of  a  beacon-light 
That  shone  on  a  woman  fair  and  trim, 
Waiting  for  him." 

LUCY  LARCOM. 

HE  May  landscape  was  one 
deluge  of  green.  For  two 
weeks  it  had  rained  every- 
day. Now  and  then  a  few 
hours  of  sunshine  with  a 
heavy  steamy  air  had  made 
life  a  burden  to  everything 
except  the  growing  crops 
and  faster  growing  weeds.  Now  and 
then  the  "clearing-up  shower"  of  the 
rainy  spell  seemed  to  have  fallen  and 
a  red  sunset  gleamed  feverishly  in  the 
west,  only  to  be  followed  by  an  all- 
night  rain.  But  for  three  days  there 
had  been  no  sunset.  The  sodden  earth 
was  chill.  The  creeks  were  running 
bank-full,  and  many  a  Kansas  draw 
almost  perennially  dry  was  now  a 
flooded  stream,  swift  and  fatally  de- 
ceptive. 

Joe  Ferine  looked  anxiously  out 
from  the  doorway  of  the  farm-house. 
Above  the  steady  beat  of  the  down- 


22 


C  UDD  Y'S    BABY 

pour  he  could  hear  a  hoarse  roar,  the 
voice  of  the  storm  which  no  human 
voice  may  defy. 

"It  must  be  an  awful  rain  to  the 
west.  Sounds  like  a  cyclone  or  cloud- 
burst. They're  gittin'  it  over  in  Grover 
township.  An'  what  they  git  there 
they'll  be  sendin'  here  in  a  few  hours. 
All  the  water  off  them  little  hills  just 
fills  these  draws  in  no  time.  Just 
listen,  Mother!" 

Mrs.  Ferine  shook  the  flour  from 
her  hands,  and,  pushing  aside  her 
dough -pan,  came  and  stood  by  her 
husband.  A  vague  sense  of  insecurity 
possessed  her,  a  dread  of  impending 
calamity  hung  over  her.  She  was  not 
a  coward.  The  hard  life  of  the  home- 
builder  in  the  West  had  given  her  a 
courage  and  a  fearlessness  in  meeting 
danger.  But  this  evening  she  looked 
imploringly  at  her  husband  as  she 
caught  the  growl  of  that  dreadful 
storm  beating  down  on  the  helpless 
earth.  Joe  smiled  down  at  her  and 
put  one  arm  around  her.  All  the  love 
of  a  manly  heart,  all  the  hope  and 
fearlessness  of  a  courageous  soul  shone 
in  his  face,  and  drove  her  own  fear 
away.  She  never  forgot  that  moment. 
Long  afterward  it  came  again  to  her 
in  memory  like  a  very  benediction. 
Through  lonely  years,  in  days  of  deep- 

23 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

est  trials,  it  gave  her,  as  at  this  mo- 
ment, a  new  strength  to  meet  what- 
ever might  come. 

On  the  step  at  their  feet  sat  Baby, 
staring  out  at  the  mad  swirl  of  water 
where  had  never  before  been  anything 
but  the  draw  between  the  pasture  and 
the  barnyard. 

Baby  was  now  past  four,  and  while 
he  was  beginning  to  be  a  sturdy  little 
boy,  he  was  not  quick  to  drop  his  baby 
speech,  and  he  clung  to  his  mother 
with  an  effusive  love  even  for  a  child. 
"My  Cuddy-Mamma,"  he  had  come 
to  call  her  now  altogether,  keeping  the 
pet  name  he  had  created  as  little 
children  will,  and  often  it  was  just 
"Cuddy"  alone  that  stood  for  all  that 
"mother"  can  mean.  Since  the  day 
when  he  had  seen  with  wondering  eyes 
the  student  contest  on  the  field  by 
the  roadside,  he  had  many  times  come 
back  to  it  in  his  childish  prattle. 
Over  and  over  in  his  mind  he  had 
turned  this  strange  thing,  so  unlike 
any  other  impression  there.  Finally 
it  became  settled  that  the  "vus'ty" 
was  the  best  thing  anybody  could 
have.  He  had  his  own  child-notion 
of  what  it  meant,  but  there  was  the 
element  of  power  in  it.  With  it  he 
could  do  anything,  and  its  watchword 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

was  the  college  yell  that  in  later  years 
was  to  be  heard  all  round  the  world. 
For  days  together  he  would  forget 
it,  then  suddenly  he  would  break  out 
with  the  jubilant  cry.  Especially  had 
he  come  to  answer  his  mother's  call  by 
it.  So  he  had  made  known  to  her 
his  hiding-places  in  the  hay,  and  his 
little  play -nooks  about  the  rose-bushes. 
And  when  he  was  lost  or  afraid,  his 
clear  cry,  half  a  defiance  of  fear  and 
half  a  pleading  for  help,  had  come  to 
be  this  University  call.  All  children 
have  such  leadings  along  strange  and 
unusual  lines.  Every  mother  knows 
how  near  the  world  of  imagination  and 
of  quaint  self -shaped  ideas  lies  to  the 
real  world  of  the  child.  Every  house- 
hold has  its  set  of  phrases  that  the 
baby  created  in  some  odd  manner, 
phrases  that  need  an  interpreter  to  the 
stranger's  ear.  And  thus,  far  away 
from  the  great  school,  the  noisy  stu- 
dents' rallying,  ringing  slogan  had  be- 
come the  watchword  for  protection, 
and  power  and  loving  assurance,  for  a 
tiny  child  in  the  poor  little  home  of 
an  ignorant  farmer.  It  was  one  of 
those  early  impressions  that  sink  deep 
into  the  plastic  mind,  that  are  effaced 
only  when  everything  else  is  forgotten 
and  the  last  Enemy  of  all  is  put  to 
rout. 

25 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

The  rain  that  had  poured  in  a  torrent 
now  ceased.  The  roar  in  the  west  had 
died  down,  but  the  sky  was  still  one 
black  shadow  and  there  was  a  feeling 
in  the  air  that  the  worst  was  yet  to 
come. 

"I  must  git  the  fences  down  and  let 
the  cattle  into  the  upland  before  the 
creek  gits  any  higher.  The  draw's 
risin'  every  minute,"  said  Joe. 

"Oh,  Joe,  I'm  afraid  for  you  to  go." 
Mrs.  Ferine 's  face  was  white. 

"Will  you  turn  back,  Papa?"  asked 
Baby  gravely. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  will,"  replied  Joe 
gaily.  ;'You  take  care  of  Cuddy - 
Mamma  till  I  come.  Deer  Creek  will 
reach  clear  over  to  the  draw  before 
mornin',  an'  if  the  cattle  ain't  let  out 
there  won't  be  no  interest-money  paid 
this  year.  We  must  save  'em." 

They  watched  him  go  down  the 
sodden  way  bordered  with  wet  rose- 
bushes and  overhung  with  the  rain- 
burdened  branches  of  trees,  his  rubber 
boots  splashing  up  drops  at  every  step. 
Across  the  lot  and  into  the  draw  he 
went,  thinking,  as  they  did,  that  the 
water  would  hardly  cover  his  boot- 
tops.  It  reached  nearly  to  his  shoul- 
ders. They  saw  him  tearing  down  the 
strong  wire  fence  that  separated  the 
creek  pasture  from  the  upland.  It 
26 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

was  hard  work,  for  the  fence  had  been 
built  to  stay.  The  gates  on  the  lower 
side  of  the  field  had  been  under  water 
for  two  days. 

Meanwhile  there  came  a  dull  growl 
out  of  the  west,  an  increasing,  deepen- 
ing roar, — the  sound  of  many  waters. 
A  darkness  was  dropping  down  on  the 
land.  Baby  had  slipped  unnoticed 
into  the  house.  The  minutes  seemed 
hours  to  the  little  woman  by  the 
kitchen  door.  A  sense  of  utter  lone- 
liness seized  her.  She  ran  to  the  edge 
of  the  draw,  straining  her  eyes  to 
watch  the  moving  figure  across  the 
meadow.  The  roar  increased.  A  great 
surging  stream  came  rushing  from  the 
west.  It  caught  the  cattle  and  their 
driver  just  as  they  tried  to  enter  the 
draw,  and  swept  them  under  in  its 
wrath.  A  merciful  darkness  shut  it 
all  from  the  watcher  on  the  hither  side 
as  the  Death  Angel  passed  down  the 
way  of  the  waters. 

''Here,  Mis'  Ferine,  we'll  take  care 
of  everything.  You  go  back  to  the 
house  to  your  baby.  Little  feller  needs 
you  now." 

It  was  the  kindly  voice  of  Jake 
Basher,  a  big  good-hearted  neighbor, 
who  spoke.  Two  or  three  other  men 
were  with  him,  rough  Western  farmers, 

27 


C  U  DD  Y  '  S    BABY 

but  tender  as  ministering  angels  to- 
ward the  dazed  little  woman  suddenly 
stricken  with  a  world-old  grief. 

' '  We'll  be  back  pretty  soon.  You've 
got  to  be  brave  now,  Lord  help  you. 
You've  got  your  baby  to  think  of. 
He'll  be  your  blessin',  too." 

They  hurried  away,  but  leaving  be- 
hind them  some  sense  of  human  aid. 

It  is  a  precious  thing  for  us  that 
underneath  are  always  the  Everlasting 
arms,  that  when  the  earth  goes  out 
from  under  our  feet  in  its  place  God 
comes.  Mrs.  Ferine  knew  what  had 
happened,  and  she  turned  toward  the 
house. 

The  rain  was  over,  and  the  May 
moon  was  lighting  up  the  flood-smitten 
land  with  its  splendor.  Up  the  sodden 
way  to  the  kitchen  door,  the  over- 
hanging branches  silvery  with  rain- 
drops, and  the  fragrant  roses  strew- 
ing the  path  with  perfumed  petals, 
she  walked  through  her  Gethsemane 
with  the  moonbeams  falling  like  an 
aureole  of  glory  about  her.  The 
kitchen  was  very  dark,  save  for  the 
square  of  light  on  the  floor  that  fell 
through  the  open  window.  Baby  was 
nowhere  in  sight,  and  the  mother's 
heart  was  smitten  with  a  new  chill. 
What  if  he  had  followed  her  to  the 
edge  of  that  mad  water  and  had  fallen 

18 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

in  when  the  terror  of  it  all  had  driven 
her  senses  from  her.  She  called  for 
him.  No  answer  came.  She  hastily 
lighted  a  lamp,  calling  again  and  again. 
Presently  from  the  dark  bedroom  came 
a  muffled  voice,  "Wock  Chalk!  Cuddy, 
Wock  Chalk!"  It  was  the  little  one's 
accustomed  answer  to  her  call,  and 
climbing  out  from  the  bedclothes  he 
ran  to  her  with  outstretched  arms. 

"I  was  so  'fraid,"  he  said,  clinging 
to  her,  "but  I  ain't  now.  I'll  take  care 
of  you  till  Papa  comes  back." 

Poor  Mrs.  Perine  held  him  close  to 
her  heart. 

"You  are  all  I  have  now,  Baby," 
she  said.  His  arms  tightened  about 
her  neck. 

"Let  me  cuddle  up  to  you  wite  close. 
You  is  my  Cuddy,  an'  I'll  always  love 
you.  I'll  not  call  you  Mamma  no 
more .  You  is  ist  my  Cuddy. ' ' 

To  the  grief-oppressed  there  is  no 
love  like  the  love  of  a  little  child,  and 
no  blessing  like  the  blessing  of  toil.  In 
the  farm-house  under  the  cottonwoods 
a  new  order  of  things  had  arisen.  The 
work  of  the  season,  belated  by  the 
May  floods,  must  go  on.  The  loss  of 
the  cattle  must  be  met.  The  mortgage 
interest  did  not  quit  growing,  no  more 
did  the  weeds.  Ready  money  was 

29 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

only  a  dream.  Hired  help  for  a  poor 
widow  who  could  only  promise  to  pay 
was  hard  to  secure.  Everybody  needed 
help,  for  the  rain  had  fallen  on  all 
alike.  It  was  hard  lines  for  Cuddy 
Ferine  and  her  child.  The  isolated 
farm-houses  put  miles  of  prairie  be- 
tween families,  and  hard  work  was 
combined  with  loneliness.  It  is  only 
the  truly  heroic  who  can  go  through 
such  tests  and  come  out  refined  gold. 

There  was  one  blessing  in  all  these 
things,  however.  There  was  no  time 
for  sitting  idle,  wrapped  in  a  consuming 
grief.  The  sunshine  that  might  have 
seemed  a  mockery  to  the  mourner  in 
a  life  of  ease,  meant  ripening  grain 
to  the  poor  widow.  The  late  summer 
rains  that  would  bring  back  that  aw- 
ful May  storm  promised  late  pasture 
and  better  forage.  And  on  these 
things  depended  her  own  existence 
and  that  of  her  beloved  boy. 

"Of  course  the  Widder  Ferine  11 
lose  that  hundred  an'  sixty.  It's  too 
bad  Joe  couldn't  'a'  lived.  I  b'lieve 
he'd  'a'  pulled  through  eventually. 
But  she'd  better  let  the  First  National 
Bank  foreclose.  She  ought  to  move 
to  town.  She  could  do  washin'  an' 
keep  herself." 

So  the  good-intentioned  neighbors 
declared.  They  would  have  helped 

30 


C  U  DD  Y'  S    BABY 

her  if  they  could,  but  they  also  had 
troubles  to  be  met.  It  was  this  very 
good-will  that  had  led  them  to  gather 
at  Jake  Basher's  house  one  bright 
Sunday  afternoon  in  October  to  talk 
over  what  was  best  for  their  brave 
little  neighbor  making  her  struggle 
alone  and  single-handed.  The  con- 
sensus of  opinion  was  that  just  ex- 
pressed. 

"It's  too  bad,"  they  affirmed. 
"She's  a  plucky  one,  and  willin'  to 
work,  but  everything's  agin  her.  An' 
the  kindest  thing  the  Deer  Crick 
neighborhood  can  do  fer  her  is  to  send 
a  committee  with  Jake  Basher  fer 
spokesman  an'  tell  her  so.  She'll  never 
git  through  the  winter." 

So  it  was  agreed  that  Jake  Basher 
and  two  of  his  neighbors  should  go  at 
once  on  this  kindly  errand.  They 
found  Cuddy  and  Baby  Harold  sitting 
on  the  doorstep.  Cuddy's  eyes  were 
not  on  the  draw,  grass-carpeted  now, 
where  the  tragedy  of  her  life  had  been 
written,  but  up  on  the  west  ridge, 
where  a  dip  in  the  hill  pasture  was  re- 
vealing the  last  grandeur  of  an  autumn 
sunset,  tint  on  tint,  like  unto  the  foun- 
dation-stones in  the  walls  of  the  New 
Jerusalem. 

Gently  as  he  could,  for  Basher  was  no 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

"happy  after-dinner  speaker,"  he  de- 
livered their  message. 

"They  ain't  no  other  way  fur  ye  to 
do,  Mis'  Ferine."  The  other  two  re- 
inforced their  spokesman. 

Cuddy's  heart  was  like  lead.  She 
knew  more  than  any  of  them  what  lay 
before  her. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  she  said.  "If  I  go 
to  town  an'  wash  for  a  livin',  there'll 
be  nothin'  but  livin'  to  show  for  it. 
If  I  stay  here  there's  something  maybe 
besides  just  life.  There's  the  farm— 

"But  you  can't  keep  it.  You'll 
lose  it,  an'  then  where  are  ye?"  So 
said  one  of  the  committee.  "In  a 
few  years  your  boy  kin  hire  out  or  git  a 
job  shovelin'  dirt  on  the  street.  But 
you'd  better  have  him  bound  out  to 
some  farmer.  Farmers  is  needin' 
bound-boys." 

Cuddy  looked  down  at  the  curly 
head  beside  her.  A  bound-boy!  And 
herself  a  washerwoman.  An  honest 
worker  but  little  separated  from  the 
class  who  court  pauperism.  The  face 
of  her  husband  when  he  gave  her  that 
last  caress,  the  bright  brave  face  of 
Joe  Ferine,  came  to  her  at  that  mo- 
ment. She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  west 
where  the  sun,  now  gone  from  sight, 
was  sending  great  shafts  of  pink  far 
across  the  sky,  like  the  arms  of  God 

32 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

reaching  above  the  shadows  of  earth 
to  lift  her  up. 

"I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you,  but 
I'm  goin'  to  stay  an'  fight  it  out,"  she 
said. 

So  the  three  left  her.  At  the  gate 
Jake  Basher  paused. 

"You  go  on,  an'  I'll  overtake  ye. 
I've  got  to  git  me  a  drink.  I'm  dry 
as  August." 

He  came  back  to  the  two  on  the 
doorstep.  Baby's  arms  were  about  his 
mother's  neck.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it  all,  but  he  knew  vaguely,  with 
a  child's  infinite  trust,  that  there  must 
be  a  way  out. 

"You  shall  stay  here,  Cuddy.  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  vus'ty  when  I'm  big. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  be  a  bound-boy.  An' 
when  I  get  it  I  can  do  any  fing."  His 
voice  swelled  with  the  last  sentence. 

"You  jest  bet  you  can,  little  boy." 
There  was  a  huskiness  in  Basher's 
voice,  although  he  had  no  notion  of 
what  the  child  had  in  mind.  "Keep 
this  to  help  you  get  it." 

He  handed  the  little  one  a  bright  new 
penny. 

"Now,  Mis'  Ferine,  you  jest  hang  on. 
You're  a  gritty  woman.  Keep  your 
nerve,  an'  don't  give  up.  An'  when- 
ever you  git  discouraged  as  you're 
bound  to  do,"  he  pointed  toward  the 

33 


C  U  D  D  Y'S    BABY 

dim  outline  of  the  divide  far  to  the 
north,  "you  remember  they's  one  fam- 
ily jest  over  Basher's  hill  that  '11  stan' 
by  ye  tel — tel  the  las'  dog's  hung." 

The  eloquence  of  spirit  makes  up 
sometimes  for  the  lack  of  eloquent 
language.  Basher  rejoined  his  com- 
panions, and  Cuddy  and  Baby  were 
left  alone. 

"See,  Cuddy,"  said  Baby,  holding  up 
the  bright  penny.  "It's  to  help  get 
my  vus'ty.  Put  it  tight  away." 

Cuddy  opened  the  old-fashioned 
clock  and  dropped  the  penny  inside  the 
case. 

"It's  the  beginnin'  for  you,  Baby," 
she  said  bravely.  "It's  small  as  could 
be,  but  it  ain't  no  smaller  than  the 
little  springs  that  begins  the  big  rivers. 
'  An'  the  Lord,  He  it  is  that  doth  go 
before  thee.  He  will  not  fail  thee,  nor 
forsake  thee,'"  she  added  gently,  and 
her  voice  sounded  like  a  prayer. 

Baby  looked  up  with  a  childish  rev- 
erence in  his  face. 


34 


BABY'S  CHRISTMAS 

"You  know 

How  blessed  'tis  to  give. 
And  they  who  think  of  others  most 
Are  the  happiest  folks  that  live." 
PHCEBE  GARY. 

HAT  was  a  bitter  winter  fol- 
lowing the  year  of  the  heavy 
May  rains  in  Kansas.  The 
snows  began  early.  Stock 
suffered  greatly,  even  before 
Thanksgiving,  while  the  De- 
cember weather  was  more 
suggestive  of  a  Michigan  win- 
ter than  the  mild  open  Kansas  month. 
The  promise  for  a  white  Yule-tide 
was  sure. 

Christmas  is  ever  the  same.  There 
is  no  other  good  cheer  in  all  the  twelve 
months  like  the  holiday  gladness. 
There  is  no  other  giving  such  a  joy 
as  when  the  closing  year  brings  again 
the  Holy  Night  with  its  childish  tra- 
ditions of  Santa  Claus  and  its  sacred 
centuries-old  benediction,  "On  earth 
peace;  good-will  toward  men." 

To  the  Kansas  children  Christmas 
was  never  more  welcome,  for  to  many 
it  was  their  first  snowy  holidays,  and 
they  rejoiced  in  it  with  the  mad  joy  of 
childhood. 


35 


CUDDY'S    BABY 

Harold  Ferine 's  few  toys  had  been 
Santa  Claus  gifts.  No  lavish  array, 
to  be  sure.  But  with  a  little  candy,  a 
few  nuts  and  an  orange  and  some  pre- 
cious plaything,  four  times  had  his 
tiny  stocking  been  filled.  This  year 
there  must  be  a  change.  It  was  no 
use  to  deceive  him,  his  mother  thought, 
with  anticipations  that  could  not  be 
realized.  It  is  brutal  to  rudely  de- 
stroy this  happy  story  of  childhood, 
and  yet  she  knew  no  Santa  Claus  would 
cross  the  snow  to  the  home  by  the 
cottonwoods  this  year.  With  all  his 
jolly  love  for  children,  the  dear  old 
saint  has  always  most  favored  the 
little  ones  of  the  rich.  It  was  no  small 
cross  for  Cuddy  to  find  an  excuse  for 
this  failure  on  his  part.  But  she  took 
it  up  as  she  was  learning  to  lift  all  her 
crosses,  one  by  one,  bravely,  even 
cheerfully.  So  one  evening  by  the 
same  old  kitchen  stove  (they  had  only 
one  fire,  and  fuel  for  that  was  growing 
scarce),  she  talked  with  her  darling 
gravely  about  the  case. 

"He  can't  come  every  year,  you 
know,  and  this  may  be  his  off  year," 
she  said. 

"Why  not?  'Cause  we  got  no 
Papa?"  queried  Baby.  "Will  he  be 
away  in  Papa's  land  ?" 

"No,  dearie;    there's  better  things 

36 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

than  even  Santa  Claus  where  Papa 
is."  She  had  kept  from  him  all  the 
horror  and  grief  of  her  tragedy.  It 
had  made  her  own  sorrow  lessen  as  she 
made  beautiful  to  him  the  story  of  the 
Life  Eternal  into  which  his  father  had 
entered. 

"What  shall  we  do,  Cuddy,  wiv  no 
Santa,  I  wonder?"  he  said  thought- 
fully. "Oh,  I  know,  Cuddy,  I  know, 
I  know."  He  danced  about  in  his 
joy. 

"Let's  have  ist  one  stockin',  not 
yours  nor  mine,  but  Papa's  for  bof  of 
us.  Papa  would  ist  love  that,  I  know. 
An'  I'll  be  your  Santa,  an'  you  be 
mine.  It's  ist  all  play  until  the  year 
when  he  comes.  Will  that  be  the  fat 
year  like  you  read  in  the  Bible  'bout 
Joseph  and  the  'Gyptians  an'  bad  old 
Pharaoh?" 

"Yes,  dearie,  Santa  will  come  again 
in  the  fat  years.  This  is  one  of  our 
lean  ones.  Lord  help  us!"  she  added 
under  her  breath.  "An'  we'll  just 
play  Santa  Claus  to  each  other.  An' 
Papa  will  be  glad  we  took  his  stockin', 
an'  although  we  can't  see  him  I  am 
sure  he  will  be  near  us  on  Christmas 
eve.  But  Baby,  what  shall  I  put  in 
for  you?" 

"Oh,  pwetty  things." 

"I  haven't  any.     It's  our  lean  year, 

37 


C  U  DD  Y'  S    BABY 

you  know.  I  wish  I  had."  There 
were  tears  in  her  voice  which  Baby  was 
quick  to  note. 

"Never  mind,  Cuddy" —and  after 
a  moment  a  cloud  lifted  for  him.  ' '  Oh, 
Cuddy,  you  can't  put  a  vus'ty  in  for 
me,  can  you  ?  Could  you  put  a  picture 
of  a  vus'ty,  maybe  ?  I'd  ist  like  that 
so  much." 

"You  must  wait  and  see.  What 
will  you  get  for  me?"  she  asked  gaily. 

"You  must  wait  an'  see,"  he  replied 
quickly. 

So  they  chatted  of  their  Christmas, 
this  lonely  couple,  building  their  holi- 
day together.  There  was  hardly  a 
human  need  that  was  not  theirs.  Hun- 
ger, cold,  toil,  loneliness,  and  mourn- 
ing,— all  were  their  daily  portion; 
while  there  was  no  beauty  in  their 
home  except  the  beauty  of  cleanliness, 
and  pitifully  few  were  the  comforts  of 
their  household.  But  there  was  one 
thing  plentiful  there,  and  that  was 
Love.  Whatever  else  might  fail,  how- 
ever sharp  might  be  the  pinch  of  pov- 
erty and  the  hard  demands  of  labor, 
this  best  thing  in  the  world  stood  firm. 
Cuddy's  life  was  centered  in  her  child. 
His  mother  was  his  idol.  She  kept  a 
cheery  heart  for  his  sake,  while  he  was 
already  learning  to  do  without  things 
and  to  be  self-reliant  in  his  childish 

38 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

way,  that  he  might  not  grieve  his  be- 
loved. 

On  the  day  before  Christmas  the 
widow  was  obliged  to  go  to  town.  It 
was  too  cold  to  take  Baby.  The  pneu- 
monia of  past  winters  was  not  forgot- 
ten. It  was  a  long  afternoon  trip,  and 
to  leave  him  alone  seemed  impossible. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  you?"  Cuddy 
asked. 

"I'll  be  good.  I'll  play  an'  keep 
close  to  the  fire." 

"But  I'm  afraid  the  fire  will  go  out." 

"Then  I'll  go  to  bed  an'  cuddle  down 
to  sleep." 

"No,  no ;  keep  awake,  whatever  you 
do,  so  you  can  say  'Rock  Chalk'  when 
I  come  home  and  call  you." 

Visions  of  fire  and  of  cold  came  to 
her,  but  she  trusted  as  she  must  do 
most  of  the  days  now. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  she  started 
away  on  her  long  nine-miles  drive  to 
town.  The  north-wind  swept  drearily 
down  the  dull  sky  as  she  passed  up  the 
long  way  to  the  top  of  the  divide. 
When  she  reached  the  grade  by  the 
field  where  the  game  had  been  played, 
the  recollection  of  it  filled  her  mind. 

"My  Baby's  got  to  have  learnin'," 
she  said,  closing  her  lips  determinedly. 
"I  can't  give  him  nothin'  else  that  will 
mean  so  much.  The  '  vus'ty '  is  power. 

39 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

It's  better  than  money  an'  land,  'cause 
it  puts  the  force  inside  and  under  his 
own  control.  These  other  things  are 
outside,  and  maybe  they'd  control  him. 
He  can't  never  have  a  father  nor 
brother  nor  sister.  But  he's  got  a 
mother's  love  an'  he's  goin'  to  get  an 
eddication.  An'  they're  blessin's  that 
'11  shape  his  life.  The  Lord  is  good 
to  let  him  have  'em." 

Her  heart  thrilled  with  humble  grat- 
itude, and,  as  if  to  reassure  herself,  and 
drive  away  the  cold  as  well,  she  clapped 
her  mittened  hands  together  and  cried 
out  cheerily : 

"Rock  Chalk!    Jay  Hawk!    K.U.!" 

Down  on  the  main  avenue  the  stores 
were  gay  with  Christmas  trappings, 
and  tempting  with  toys  and  other  de- 
lights. The  show  windows  are  always 
prettiest  at  the  holiday  season,  but 
Cuddy  could  not  stop  to  look  at  them, 
for  time  was  precious,  and  the  few 
pieces  of  silver  in  her  purse  must  be 
used  for  debts  that  dogged  her  steps, 
or  to  fight  back  the  wolf  from  her  door. 

"I  can't  even  give  him  home-made 
candy,"  she  said  sorrowfully.  Sugar 
and  molasses  were  in  her  list  of  lux- 
uries. "I  wish  I  could  find  him  a  pic- 
ture somewhere.  His  heart  is  so  set 
on  it." 

The  big  book-store  of  Basel  &  Com- 

40 


C  U  DD  y 'S    BABY 

pany  had  never  been  more  artistic  in 
its  holiday  appointments.  Crowded 
as  it  was,  it  had  the  atmosphere  of  a 
handsome  library. 

At  a  low  counter  young  Basel,  son 
of  the  proprietor,  was  attending  a 
richly  dressed  woman  who  was  buying 
lavishly  for  a  little  girl  beside  her. 

"That  will  be  all,  will  it,  Mrs.  An- 
cel?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the  next 
customer,  against  whom  Mrs.  Ancel 
stumbled  as  she  started  out.  It  was 
only  a  shabby  country-woman,  who 
stared  about  her.  Mrs.  Ancel,  sweep- 
ing past,  gave  her  a  look  of  infinite 
scorn. 

"These  country  lubbers  never  look 
where  they  are  going  when  they  get 
to  town,  Muriel,"  speaking  to  her  little 
daughter.  "They  fill  up  a  store  so 
one  can't  shop.  I  wish  they  could 
be  kept  out  of  the  city  during  the  hol- 
idays." 

Cuddy  Ferine  shrank  as  from  a 
blow.  This  place  was  too  pretty  for 
her,  who  so  loved  pretty  things.  Not 
three  times  in  twice  as  many  years  had 
she  been  inside  of  a  book-store.  Her 
meager  reading  had  come  from  other 
sources.  She  turned  to  go  as  one  who 
had  no  right  there. 

"Can't  I  show  you  something?" 
It  was  young  Basel's  voice,  courteously 

41 


C U  D  D Y  '  S    BABY 

kind  as  it  had  been  to  the  fine  lady 
who  had  just  passed  out. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Cuddy  hes- 
itatingly. 

The  young  man  understood  at  a 
glance.  He  was  the  spirit  of  this  well- 
appointed  book-shop  that  made  it  the 
pride  of  the  town. 

"Would  you  like  to  look  about 
first?"  She  might  have  been  the  wife 
of  a  millionaire  from  his  tone.  It  put 
a  sense  of  self-respect  into  the  widow's 
soul.  How  she  would  love  to  spend 
an  hour  there!  But  the  little  boy 
alone  in  the  cold  house — she  must 
hurry. 

"Have  you  any  little  cheap  picture 
of  the  Kansas  University?"  she  asked, 
fingering  a  precious  silver  dime  in  her 
coarse  mitten. 

Basel  wondered  afterward  what  kept 
him  from  fainting.  She  might  as  well 
have  asked  for  an  illuminated  version 
of  Herodotus,  and  not  have  surprised 
him  more. 

"My  little  boy  wants  one  so  bad," 
she  said,  seeing  him  hesitate.  He  had 
his  hand  on  a  pile  of  Mother  Goose 
story-books. 

"Yes,  I  think  we  must  have.  Come 
inhere." 

He  led  the  way  into  an  alcove  where 
were  many  pictures  and  stacks  of 

43 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

illustrated  pamphlets.  Cuddy's  eyes 
glistened  as  she  looked  about  her. 

"Here's  a  little  lithograph.  It's  an 
advertisement  of  the  University,  but 
it's  all  we  have." 

It  was  a  small  souvenir-card  show- 
ing the  best  of  the  University  build- 
ings, with  hardly  a  hint  at  the  mag- 
nificent landscape  that  lies  about  them. 
The  grass  was  very  green  and  the  sky 
was  very  blue,  for  advertisements  were 
not  then  the  works  of  art  they  have 
since  become. 

"How  much  is  it?"  asked  Cuddy. 

"Oh,  take  it  along.  They  were 
sent  here  in  some  catalogs  of  the  school. 
Here,  let  me  fix  it  up  for  your  little 
one."  He  slipped  it  deftly  into  a 
small  cheap  frame  made  for  holding 
photographs. 

"Oh,  thank  you;  much  obliged  to 
you.  My  Baby  will  be  so  glad." 

"I  wanted  to  give  her  something 
else  for  her  child,"  said  Basel,  speaking 
of  it  afterward.  But  I  didn't  dare, 
somehow.  There  was  that  about  her, 
shabby  as  she  was,  that  wouldn't  let 
me." 

Cuddy  tucked  the  precious  picture 
safely  away  in  her  basket  and  started 
on  her  long  homeward  drive.  The 
wind  had  gone  down  and  a  crisp  frost- 
rimed  world  tinged  with  the  clear  pur- 

43 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

pie  and  scarlet  of  a  December  sunset 
lay  in  winter  stillness  about  her. 

"It's  lots  warmer  when  you're 
happy,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Maybe 
Kansas  ain't  been  very  kind  to  me. 
But  they's  troubles  wherever  they's 
geography,  I  guess,  an'  somehow  they's 
healin'  to  the  soul  in  such  a  place  as 
this."  She  breathed  deeply  of  the 
bracing  air,  and  her  cheeks  grew  pink 
with  its  frosty  caress.  "I'd  never 
want  to  live  nowhere  else  now.  It's 
consecrated  ground  where  your  strug- 
gles is.  Mine's  here,  heaven  knows, 
but  they  ain't  makin'  me  bitter  nor 
selfish.  Maybe  it's  because  I  can  see 
so  far.  Back  East  a  man  can't  even 
see  all  his  own  ground,  let  alone  his 
neighbors',  an'  he's  apt  to  get  the 
notion  everything  he  sees  is  his  an' 
part  of  what  he  don't  see.  He  forgets 
all  about  the  earth  bein'  the  Lord's 
an'  the  fulness  thereof." 


Meanwhile,  Baby  Harold,  left  alone 
for  four  long  hours,  had  tried  every 
means  he  knew  to  kill  time.  He  had 
played  stable  with  chair  stalls  and 
broomstick  horses.  He  had  had  a 
Sabbath-school,  and  had  gone  visiting 
at  Basher's.  And  best  of  all,  he  had 
worked  out  a  football  game,  with  the 
knives  for  one  team  and  the  forks  for 

44 


C  U  DD  Y'  S    BABY 

the  other,  and  the  spoons  in  the  glass 
tumbler  for  the  packed  grand-stand. 
But  he  tired  of  even  this,  and  he  was 
getting  lonely,  cold  and  hungry.  It 
was  growing  late,  too,  and  the  shad- 
ows were  deepening  in  the  corners  of 
the  room.  He  sat  by  the  kitchen  win- 
dow and  went  through  with  all  the 
songs  he  knew,  and  his  voice  was  sweet 
and  clear  as  he  sang  the  hymns  his 
mother  had  taught  him.  When  he  had 
finished  the  last  line  of  "God  be  with 
you  till  we  meet  again,"  his  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  and  because  he  didn't 
know  what  else  to  do  he  folded  his 
chubby  hands  reverently  and  repeated 
the  Lord's  Prayer. 

His  case  was  getting  desperate,  when 
he  suddenly  thought  of  Christmas  eve. 

"I'll  get  ready  now,"  he  said,  drag- 
ging his  high  chair  toward  the  clock  - 
shelf.  Joe  Ferine  had  placed  it  low 
because  his  wife  was  short  of  stature. 
Harold  could  just  open  the  clock  by 
standing  on  tiptoe  on  his  high  chair. 
Down  inside  the  case  he  fingered  until 
he  found  the  penny  Basher  had  given 
him.  He  gripped  it  tightly.  It  meant 
a  money-panic  for  him  to  give  it  up. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  his  fund  for  his 
beloved  "vus'ty."  But  the  love  for 
his  mother  was  stronger  than  any 
other  feeling.  Wrapping  the  penny 

45 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

awkwardly  in  a  bit  of  paper,  he  tucked 
it  under  his  pillow.  "She'll  be  so 
s'prised  and  glad,  I  ist  know,"  he  said 
to  himself;  and  then,  just  as  his  lone- 
liness was  coming  back,  he  caught  the 
singing  of  the  snow  under  the  wheels 
and  heard  his  mother's  voice. 

"Rock  Chalk,  Jay  Hawk,"  he  an- 
swered her  call. 

After  supper,  Cuddy,  with  her  little 
one  on  her  knee,  told  over  the  story  of 
the  blessed  Baby  born  so  many  cen- 
turies ago  in  a  humble  manger.  The 
Baby  who  was  to  be  the  Light  of 
the  world.  Then  they  sang  together, 
"What  a  friend  we  have  in  Jesus," 
and  Harold  said  his  prayers. 

And  then  came  the  great  act  of  the 
evening.  Each  in  turn  made  pretense 
of  going  to  sleep  while  the  other  slipped 
the  Christmas  gift  into  the  father's 
stocking  hung  close  by  the  stove  on 
the  chimney. 

It  was  late  before  Harold  could  fall 
asleep.  The  heart  of  childhood  is  the 
same  in  cabin  and  palace,  and  there  was 
no  more  happy,  trustful  child  in  all 
Kansas  that  Christmas  eve  than  the 
little  fatherless  boy  in  the  plain  home 
under  the  shadows  of  tall  leafless  cot- 
ton woods.  The  winter  wind  swept 
across  the  prairies,  making  fuzzy  little 
snow -flurries  along  its  path.  The 
46 


C U  DD Y  '  S    BABY 

moonlight  fell  in  a  shower  of  silvery 
splendor,  on  a  diamond-decked  land- 
scape. No  reindeers  and  sleigh  cut 
the  long  white  road  to  the  far-away 
cottage  that  night,  but  the  trees 
stretched  their  arms  in  loving  protec- 
tion above  it,  and  their  shadows  fell 
caressingly  on  roof  and  wall. 

Cuddy  sat  late  by  the  fire,  mapping 
out  her  future  step  by  step. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused,  "if  that 
fine  lady  in  the  book-store  loves  her 
little  girl  any  more  than  I  love  my 
boy,  even  if  she  could  spend  dollars, 
and  I  was  glad  of  the  gift  for  nothin'. 
She  was  such  a  pretty  child,  too,  an' 
her  name  is  Muriel.  It's  a  sweet  name. 
Some  day,  when  Baby  is  dressed  like 
a  gentleman,  I'd  like  to  see  him  along- 
side such  a  girl.  I  won't  think  about 
her  mother.  I  believe  when  my  boy's 
grown  up  he'd  rather  have  me  poor  an' 
kind  than  rich  an'  rude." 

Cuddy's  prayer  that  night  was  sweet 
and  trustful. 

"Dear  Father,"  she  prayed,  "there's 
only  one  way  before  me,  but  it's  Thy 
way.  I  don't  know  much,  an'  I  can't 
do  much  myself.  If  I  bring  up  my 
blessed  Baby  to  be  a  strong  man,  an' 
to  have  schoolin',  so's  he  can  have  a 
place  in  the  world,  an'  to  do  good  with 
the  power  that's  his'n,  take  it,  dear 

47 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

Lord,  for  my  gift  to  Thee.  I  know 
even  if  it  seems  like  we  just  can't  get 
through,  that  my  hands  is  goin'  to  be 
strengthened;  an'  if  I  come  to  my 
burdens  brave,  they'll  be  like  wings; 
when  I  lift  'em,  they'll  lift  me.  Give 
me  hope  an'  courage  an'  love,  so's  I 
won't  have  bitterness  an'  hate  in  my 
heart,  an'  I'll  fight  my  battle  the  best 
I  can,  until,  some  day,  I  can  '  enter  into 
Thy  gates  with  thanksgivin',  an'  into 
Thy  courts  with  praise,'  an'  be  with 
Joe  again  in  Thy  kingdom  forever 
more.  Amen." 

The  world  was  magnificent  that 
Christmas  morning,  done  in  ermine  and 
mother-of-pearl,  with  a  sunburst  of 
radiance  in  the  sky,  and  never  a  jagged 
line  in  all  the  soft,  graceful  curves  of 
the  snow-draped  earth.  Kansas  had 
hardly  known  such  a  Canadian  winter 
day  among  the  milder  holidays  of  its 
history.  Long  before  Harold  was 
awake  his  mother  had  made  the  kitchen 
warm  and  cosy.  It  was  always  clean, 
and  this  morning  she  would  not  stint 
the  fuel.  And  since  she  was  not  only 
maid-of-all-work,  but  man-of-all-work 
as  well,  she  had  planned  to  have 
their  celebration  before  she  went  to  her 
cold  task  of  milking,  feeding  and  cut- 
ting the  ice  in  the  creek  where  the 
cattle  might  drink.  There  were  only 

48 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

a  few  head  saved  out  of  that  May 
flood,  and  they  were  very  valuable  now. 

"What's  in  our  stockin'  ?  I  ist  can't 
wait!"  cried  Harold,  tumbling  pink 
and  happy  out  of  his  morning  sleep. 

"Why,  here's  a  picture,  sure  enough, 
and  it's  the  University,  too,"  she  said. 

Harold's  cup  was  full.  Years  af- 
terward, Muriel  Ancel,  speaking  of 
that  day,  said,  "I  had  so  many  gifts 
heaped  on  me  that  year  I  had  no  joy 
in  any  of  them." 

"And  I  had  so  few,"  Harold  had  re- 
plied, "that  I  had  nothing  but  joy." 

"It's  a  real  vus'ty.  A  great  big 
house,  an'  oh,  pretty  grass  an'  every- 
thing like  I  dreamed  last  night.  Tell 
me  all  about  it." 

He  turned  the  picture  about  as 
though  all  Mount  Oread  lay  at  the 
back  of  the  frame. 

"Were  you  ever  there,  Cuddy?" 

But  Cuddy  had  found  a  bunchy  lit- 
tle bundle  of  paper. 

"Why,  what  can  this  be?" 

Baby's  eyes  danced. 

"It's  my  vus'ty  penny,  an'  it's  for 
you,  Cuddy.  It  was  all  I  had,  an' 
it's  ist  for  you." 

How  less  than  little  it  was,  but  the 
love  that  went  with  it  meant  millions. 
Cuddy  understood  both,  the  love  and 
the  sacrifice. 

49 


C  U  D  D  Y'S    BABY 

"It's  to  be  the  beginnin'  of  a  Christ- 
mas '  vus'ty'  fund,  an'  every  Christmas, 
fat  an'  lean  years,  I'll  add  to  it  a  lit- 
tle. An'  when  you  grow  up  it  will  help 
to  pay  your  way  to  the  'vus'ty.'  So 
there'll  be  something  in  Papa's  stockin' 
for  both  of  us." 

"Will  the  vus'ty  be  yours,  too,  oh, 
Cuddy?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way,  it  will." 

There  was  a  jingling  of  sleigh-bells 
just  outside  the  window,  and  Jake 
Basher's  big  kindly  voice  sang  out, 
"Merry  Christmas!"  before  Mrs.  Pe- 
rine  could  open  the  door. 

' '  Ma  sent  me  over  to  do  your  chores 
fur  ye  this  mornin',  and  to  bring  some 
things  ol'  Santy  lef  las'  night  by 
mistake,"  winking  toward  Harold. 
"Here's  a  pun'kin,  an'  some  navy 
beans,  an'  some  cookies,  outlandishest 
things  you  ever  seen — got  baked  into 
shapes  like  men  an'  horses  an'  things. 
An'  some  molasses  candy,  an'  a  few 
nuts.  An'  seein'  it's  so  all-fired  cold 
I  jest  hitched  up  to  the  bob-sled.  Ye 
see" — he  hesitated — "a  lot  of  drift- 
wood from  the  flood  lodged  down  on 
the  section  below  ye,  an'  as  it  wasn't 
rightly  nobody's,  the  neighbors  geth- 
ered  it  up  an'  cut  it  stove-lengths; 
an'  as  no  one  of  'em  could  take  it  they 
piled  it  on  my  bob-sled  yesterday  fur 

50 


C  U  D  D  Y  '5    BABY 

me  to  bring  in  this  mornin'  to  you. 
They's  wood  there  they  know  is  your'n, 
fur  they  ain't  no  other  hick'ry  trees  on 
the  creek  except  your  farm  here. 
They's  four  er  five  more  loads,  comin' 
in  this  week." 

And  there  through  the  window 
Cuddy  caught  sight  of  a  wagon-bed 
on  runners,  piled  high  with  seasoned 
wood,  corded  neatly. 

"Why,  when  did  you  get  it  ready?" 
asked  the  surprised  woman. 

' '  The  week  after  we  was  here  in  the 
fall  an'  you  said  you  wasn't  goin'  to 
leave  the  farm,  an'  never  put  up  no 
whine  'bout  bein'  a  poor  widder 
nuther,"  replied  the  farmer.  "I'm 
lookin'  fur  an  airly  spring,  an'  they's 
wood  to  keep  ye  through." 

Late  that  afternoon  the  mother  and 
child  sat  together.  In  the  latter's 
hand  was  his  cherished  picture. 

"Tell  me  all  'bout  it,"  he  said. 

"But  I  never  was  there." 

"Well,  tell  me  how  you  think  it  is," 
he  persisted. 

So  Cuddy  drew  her  own  picture  for 
him. 

"I  think  it's  up  on  a  high  hill  like 
Basher's,  because  them  that  planned 
it  first  would  know  the  value  of  not 
bein'  crowded,  and  of  havin'  an  out- 
look. A  school's  like  a  fort  some  ways 

5* 


C  U  D  D  Y  *S    BABY 

— wants  to  overlook  the  country.  An' 
I  think  there  are  lots  more  nice  build- 
ings there,  all  full  of  nice  young  folks, 
and  they  have  good  times  and  work 
hard.  An'  all  around  there's  flowers 
and  trees  where  the  scholars  can  sit 
an'  study,  or  look  off  at  the  distance. 
It  makes  poets  an'  painters  as  well  as 
scholars  to  go  to  the  University,  an' 
be  where  they  can  learn  an'  where 
there's  nothin'  to  shut  off  the  sky- 
line all  around. 

"I  expect,"  she  went  on,  "that  they 
can  see  miles  of  farms  an'  orchards, 
and  pastures,  and  maybe  a  river. 
The  Kaw  ain't  very  far  from  there.  I 
know  most  they  can  see  that;  and 
then  away  off  the  soft  purple  where 
the  earth  and  sky  comes  together. 
Think  of  watchin'  a  sunrise  up  there, 
an'  of  seein'  all  the  pretty  lights  of 
evenin',  an'  in  the  fall  after  frost  comes 
it  must  be  glorious." 

"Will  I  see  it  all  some  day?"  asked 
Baby;  "and  what  can  I  do  wiv  the 
vus'ty?" 

"Baby,  dear,  you  will  see  it.  The 
University  ain't  easy  to  understand 
now.  But  you'll  know  when  you  get 
bigger.  They's  power  in  books,  that 
can  make  you  do  good  in  the  world. 
You  can  be  good  anyhow,  but  you 
can't  do  good,  not  much  good,  unless 

52 


C  U  DD  y  '  5    BABY 

you  have  schoolin'.  It  begins  over  in 
the  Deer  Creek  school-house,  but  it 
don't  never  end,  not  even  when  you 
get  a  diploma  from  the  University." 

Baby  only  half  understood  her  words, 
but  in  the  wisdom  of  his  child-heart  he 
caught  the  beginnings  of  what  Life, 
real  Life,  means.  Not  always  to  those 
of  mature  years  and  wide  opportuni- 
ties alone  is  it  vouchsafed  to  know  the 
best  things.  In  the  mind  of  this  little 
country  boy  the  wisdom  of  the  ages 
was  finding  lodgment.  He  never  for- 
got that  Christmas  day.  Years  af- 
terward it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
have  known  intuitively  then  what  he 
later  went  through  many  and  various 
ways  to  justify. 

When  he  said  his  "Now  I  lay  me" 
that  night,  a  sense  of  something  hith- 
erto unknown  came  upon  him,  and  in 
the  simplicity  of  his  soul  he  added  to 
his  usual  form:  "Please  make  me  a 
good  boy,  and — Dear  Jesus,  I'm  goin' 
to  do  it." 


CUDDY'S  CHRISTMAS 

'Those  who  toil  bravely  and  strongly, 

The  humble  and  poor,  become  great, 
And  from  these  little  brown-handed  children 
Shall  grow  up  mighty  rulers  of  state." 

HERE  was  a  sameness  about 
the  years  of  the  story  that 
was  writing  itself  out  in  the 
tree-sheltered  home  in  the 
Deer  Creek  valley.  Hard 
work,  merciless  economy, 
little  leisure,  many  failures, 
many  bitter  discouragements 
marked  the  days.  It  was  only  a  com- 
mon-place life  there,  with  no  romance 
and  no  thrilling  adventure ;  nothing  to 
put  into  the  poet's  song,  nor  the  fiction- 
writer's  novel.  Just  a  widow  strug- 
gling to  earn  a  livelihood,  to  keep  down 
the  gnawing  debt  that  was  eating  at 
her  land,  to  give  her  son  what  oppor- 
tunities her  meager  resources  afforded, 
and  in  her  own  patient  persistent  way 
to  grow  into  a  larger  mental  life.  And 
just  a  country  boy  to  whom  the  com- 
monest comforts  were  mostly  luxuries 
—a  boy — growing  year  by  year  toward 
a  man's  stature,  with  muscles  like  iron, 
a  sound  digestion,  and,  for  anything 
he  knew,  no  nervous  system  at  all.  His 
was  an  isolated  life,  and  full  of  duties, 


54 


CUDDY'S    BABY 

but  his  buoyant  good-nature  and  his 
innate  eagerness  for  knowledge  kept 
his  spirit  wholesome.  Of  necessity  he 
learned  how  to  sow  and  reap.  He  was 
wise  in  wood  lore  and  prairie  lore,  and 
he  gained  skill  in  the  use  of  such  tools 
as  he  had.  Of  necessity  he  developed 
fearlessness  and  self-reliance.  He  fed 
horned  cattle  and  handled  vicious  colts. 
He  could  swim  like  a  fish,  could  climb 
to  the  highest  places,  and  was  sure- 
footed in  the  narrow  ways.  He  never 
lost  his  bearings.  From  the  top  of  the 
west  ridge  Cuddy  would  catch  his 
clear  ringing  "Rock  Chalk!  Jay 
Hawk!"  which  was  always  his  signal 
to  her,  and  down  the  dark  lane  he 
came  singing  home. 

There  were  those  who  said  Mrs.  Pe- 
rine  had  spoiled  her  boy,  although  they 
could  excuse  her  on  the  ground  of 
"havin'  nothin'  else  to  spoil."  Yet 
they  could  but  withdraw  a  little  moral 
support  from  her  when  she  stinted 
herself  so  one  winter  to  pay  for  singing- 
lessons.  Especially  when  Harry  Pe- 
rine  went  twice  a  week  clear  to  town- 
nine  miles — to  take  lessons  of  a  city 
teacher,  when  Jennie  Basher  could  play 
the  organ  and  lead  the  choir  and  teach 
poor  folks'  children  all  the  music  they 
need  to  know.  All  Deer  Creek  neigh- 
borhood except  Jake  Basher  declared 

55 


C  U  D  D  y'S    BABY 

"the  Widder  Ferine  was  a  fool,  but  a 
good -hearted  one."  Basher  "didn't 
know  but  he'd  'a'  done  better  to  'a'  let 
Jennie  had  some  more  advantages," 
but  the  other  neighbors  set  that  down 
to  Basher's  modesty  about  his  own 
girl. 

But  through  all  the  shadow  and 
shine  of  the  seasons,  the  "vus'ty" 
notion  of  Baby  Harold's  childhood, 
growing  slowly  into  the  definite  uni- 
versity idea,  was  never  lost.  Each 
Christmas  eve  the  same  old  stocking 
hung  by  the  kitchen  chimney,  and  the 
penny  fund  grew  slowly.  The  sea- 
sons fluctuated.  Sometimes  the 
"vus'ty"  stock  was  at  a  premium,  and 
sometimes  it  was  desperately  below 
par.  But  the  fund  was  never  used  for 
any  other  purpose.  It  came  to  be  the 
one  feature  of  their  holiday  celebration, 
each  trying  to  surprise  the  other  by 
the  size  of  the  increase  contributed. 
They  might  have  grown  miserly  over 
it  had  its  purpose  been  less  generous. 
But  always  Cuddy  kept  before  her  boy 
the  notion  that  education  is  a  power 
for  good  or  it  is  wasted  energy. 

Naturally  they  became  students  to- 
gether, making  use  of  every  scrap  of 
learning.  It  is  wonderful  how  much 
the  hungry  mind  can  find  to  feed  upon. 
One  year  an  advertiser  of  liver  pills 

56 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

issued  a  Shakespeare  almanac  with 
long  quotations  from  Julius  Cassar 
interspersed  with  glowing  testimonials 
of  restored  liver-owners  all  the  way 
from  Molunkus,  Maine,  to  Tarpon, 
Texas.  It  was  in  this  almanac  that 
Harold  Ferine  and  his  mother  found 
their  Shakespeare.  Something  in  An- 
tony's eulogy  of  Brutus  fastened  itself 
in  the  boy's  understanding. 

"His  mind  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 
So  mix'd  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  'This  was  a  man!'  ' 

The  lines  created  an  ideal  for  the  boy 
that  did  not  leave  him. 

And  so  they  passed  their  days  until 
the  real  University  life  began,  and 
Harold  Ferine  climbed  the  steep  slope 
to  the  top  of  Mount  Oread  and  saw  the 
picture  his  mother  had  tried  to  paint 
in  words  in  the  Christmas  afternoon 
so  long  ago. 

The  big,  eager-hearted  boy  from  the 
edge  of  the  short-grass  country  brought 
to  his  new  life  a  determined  spirit,  a 
sunny  good-nature,  and  a  manliness  of 
character.  But  the  order  of  the  world 
seemed  changed  to  him.  His  first  les- 
son was  that  some  students  came  with 
little  intention  of  learning.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  find  how  they  squandered 
time  and  neglected  opportunities.  It 
was  a  surprise  to  see  how  lavishly 

57 


C U  DD Y  '  S    BABY 

money  could  be  spent  by  those  who 
had  never  earned  a  dollar  in  their  lives, 
and  how  much  influence  in  University 
circles  that  money  could  bring.  It  was 
a  revelation  to  discover  how  much  of 
dissipation  may  creep  into  a  college 
boy's  life,  unfitting  him  for  the  decent 
society  in  which  he  daily  mingles. 
And  the  greatest  surprise  of  all,  the 
one  he  did  not  even  mention  in  his 
letters  to  Cuddy,  was  that  there  could 
be  such  a  beautiful  girl  outside  of 
pictures  as  Muriel  Ancel,  whom  he 
met  the  day  he  entered  school. 

But  he  had  grown  up  with  one  pur- 
pose, and  he  had  lived  too  near  to  the 
heart  of  Nature,  and  the  sweetness  that 
comes  up  from  the  prairie  sod  of  Kan- 
sas, and  the  inspiration  that  comes 
down  from  her  splendid  skies,  were  too 
much  a  part  of  his  being,  disciplined 
by  years  of  endeavor,  for  him  to  lose 
his  balance  in  the  first  bewildering 
whirl  of  his  strange  new  life. 

He  knew  at  once  that  a  battle  was 
before  him,  the  battle  every  poor  boy 
must  fight  who  attains  to  the  mastery 
in  the  world  of  men.  It  was  not  a  win- 
ning fight  always,  and  only  the  re- 
membrance of  the  patient  mother  at 
home  whose  life  was  his  life  kept  him 
sometimes  from  utter  defeat.  It  is 
wonderful  what  Love  can  do.  And 

58 


C U  DD Y  '  S    BABY 

how  a  plain  little  country-woman,  who 
never  had  been  inside  a  college  door, 
whose  hands  were  unshapely  from  the 
tasks  men  perform,  a  woman  of  whom 
in  the  social  sense  one  could  not  be 
proud, — how  this  little  mother,  the 
Cuddy-Mamma  of  Harold  Perine's  ba- 
byhood,— the  companion  of  his  child- 
hood, was  the  inspiration  of  his  man- 
hood. 

He  filled  his  letters  with  all  the 
University  life  he  was  living,  until  she 
came  to  know  people  and  places  and 
conditions  almost  as  accurately  as  if 
she  were  really  a  student.  They  had 
been  happy  companions  at  home. 
They  were  college  chums  now,  and  a 
new  world  opened  for  her, — albeit  it 
was  only  painted  on  note-paper  with 
an  indelible  pencil. 

"Oh,  Cuddy,"  Harold  wrote  early 
in  the  first  year,  "it  is  tremendous  to 
just  be  here.  To  know  the  boys,  and 
the  girls,  too.  There's  a  girl  here 
named  Muriel,  who  is  the  prettiest  girl 
in  the  world,  I  believe, — except  Cuddy, 
who  is  more  than  beautiful  to  me; 
and  there  are  men  whose  very  presence 
in  the  class-room  puts  self-respect  in- 
side a  fellow,  and  makes  him  take 
hold  of  things.  You  remember  that 
poem  we  pasted  on  the  clock-face, 


59 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

'Each  in  His  Own  Tongue,1  and  how 
we  loved  the  stanza : 

"  'A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, — 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, — 
The  ripe  rich  tint  of  the  corn-fields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high, — 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God.' 

The  man  who  wrote  that  is  a  professor 
here,  and  I  know  him  personally.  I 
never  knew  what  hero-worship  meant 
until  I  met  him.  Of  course  I  know 
all  about  saint-worship.  Learned  that 
down  on  Deer  Creek,  where  Saint 
Cuddy  has  a  shrine." 

So  ran  his  letters  in  happy  vein, 
carefully  hiding  the  struggle-and-sac- 
rifice  side  of  things.  "She's  had 
enough  of  that,  heaven  knows,"  he 
thought. 

And  his  mother,  with  an  unutterable 
loneliness  added  to  her  other  cares, 
wrote  only  of  the  best  things,  hinting 
not  at  all  of  the  conditions  she  had 
now  to  meet.  His  absence  meant 
more  than  loneliness.  His  place  must 
be  filled,  and  Cuddy  became  her  own 
hired  help  to  save  the  money  for  his 
needs.  One  thing  she  had  enforced 
upon  him,  and  her  letters  repeated  it : 
"You  have  only  four  years  for  the 
'vus'ty'  you  have  kept  since  child- 
hood, Baby,  and  you  must  not  put  in 
60 


C  U  D  D  Y  'S    BABY 

all  the  time  in  study  in  school  and 
hard  work  out  of  school.  You  may 
get  through  quicker,  maybe,  to  crowd 
four  years  into  three,  but  you  are 
taking  out  of  yourself  what  you  put 
into  your  lessons.  There's  nothing, 
not  even  glory,  in  starving  and  slaving 
and  studying.  Get  all  you  can  out  of 
books  first,  but  don't  forget  to  learn 
how  to  fall  in  with  folks  so  you  can 
take  your  place,  not  as  a  broken-down 
book-eater,  but  an  all-round  man. 
Im'  too  busy  to  nurse  invalids,  and 
you  must  keep  strong,  and  if  you  grad- 
uate you  don't  want  to  be  too  awk- 
ward to  know  how  to  meet  even  the 
Governor  of  Kansas  if  you  was  in- 
troduced to  him." 

She  added  to  this  letter:  "I  never 
knew  but  one  girl  named  Muriel,  and 
that  was  when  you  was  a  baby.  She 
was  beautiful.  It  must  be  the  name. 
—CUDDY." 

It  is  hard  to  tell  which  had  the 
busier  life,  and  it  is  useless  to  enter 
into  the  stress  of  it.  Harold  Ferine 
came  to  his  own  at  last,  on  the  strength 
of  intrinsic  merit.  There  was  no  more 
popular  fellow  in  the  University  than 
he.  Even  among  the  ultra-exclusive 
and  the  frivolous  sets  he  was  admired, 
while  to  every  young  student  coming 
over  the  way  he  had  come  he  was  a 

61 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

tower  of  strength.  He  was  the  idol 
of  the  athletic  field.  The  same  spirit 
that  years  before  had  led  him  to  cry 
out, 

"Wot  Chot!  Jay  Haut!  Ta  O-o!" 
and  so  lead  the  University  to  conquest, 
had  more  than  once  brought  victory 
to  his  comrades  and  honor  to  himself. 
His  pride  in  the  heavy  course  he  was 
mastering,  and  his  upright  character, 
combined  all  with  the  hopefulest  of 
spirits,  could  but  keep  him  in  the  very 
fore-front  of  the  University  life. 

And  naturally  enough  this  was  not 
Cuddy's  life.  It  could  not  be,  try  as 
she  would,  for  her  own  work  must  be 
done,  and  she  was  filling  her  place  she 
knew.  So  she  would  not  grieve.  She 
rejoiced,  rather,  sure  of  an  unfailing 
love  from  her  Baby.  He  never  was 
anything  else  to  her.  Every  vacation 
found  him  at  home,  falling  easily  into 
his  place  and  lifting  from  his  mother's 
shoulders  all  the  burdens  that  he  could. 
Every  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas 
holiday  his  welcome  call,  "Rock  Chalk ! 
Jay  Hawk!"  would  sound  far  down 
the  valley  from  the  top  of  the  west 
ridge,  to  let  his  mother  know  he  was 
coming.  They  had  no  other  signal 
that  meant  so  much.  Every  Christ- 
mas-time the  old  stocking  was  hung  in 
its  place,  and  the  big  "Varsity  athlete " 

62 


C  U  D  D  Y'  S    BABY 

put  his  best  into  it  as  years  before  he 
had  concealed  his  blessed  "vus'ty" 
penny. 

One  other  thing  had  happened,  the 
thing  that  has  had  a  way  of  happening 
since  the  world  was  young.  A  new 
joy,  that  was  unlike  any  other  joy  he 
had  ever  known;  a  happiness  that 
made  Mount  Oread  a  delectable  moun- 
tain glorified  for  him,  had  come  to  fill 
his  days.  Muriel  Ancel,  dark-eyed, 
pink-cheeked,  sweet-voiced,  with  the 
gentleness  of  a  child,  and  a  spirit  of 
exceeding  kindness,  had  for  three  years 
been  so  much  more  than  all  else  the 
spirit  of  the  University  for  him.  He 
had  not  told  her  so.  He  didn't  know 
it  himself  for  a  long  time,  and  when  he 
did  "find  himself"  the  realization  was 
more  like  pain  than  any  sorrow  he  had 
ever  known.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
gulf  ready  to  yawn  between  them  as 
soon  as  Commencement  should  rob 
them  of  more  college  days  together, 
their  lives  were  so  widely  divergent 
outside. 

When  Harold  met  Mrs.  Ancel  he 
felt  this  more  than  ever,  as  he  thought 
of  Cuddy.  "But  I'd  rather  have  my 
Cuddy  poor  and  kind  than  rich  and 
rude,"  he  had  said  to  himself  just  as 
his  mother  had  believed  he  would 
after  the  meeting  in  the  book-store 


C  U  DD  F'S    BABY 

in  that  earlier  time.  But  Mrs.  Ancel 
was  not  Muriel,  nor  in  any  way  like 
her,  and  Harold's  heart  was  unchanged. 

It  came  about  that  at  the  approach 
of  the  fourth  Christmas  of  his  school 
years  a  large  house-party  was  planned 
in  the  Ancel  home.  A  round  of  dinners 
and  dances  and  rollicking  good  times 
was  mapped  out.  Most  of  the  guests 
were  from  Muriel's  University  set ; 
and  if  anybody  knows  how  to  rig  and 
launch  a  good  time,  a  group  of  college 
boys  and  girls  of  many  months'  asso- 
ciation can  do  it.  Music  was  to  be  a 
feature  of  every  event.  Muriel's  touch 
on  the  piano  was  exquisite,  and  Har- 
old's solos  were  to  delight  every 
company.  His  voice  was  now  the 
fullness  of  that  of  which  Joe  Ferine 's 
voice  was  the  promise.  It  had  been 
his  "open  sesame"  to  the  best  musical 
circles.  It  took  Harold  a  long  time 
to  write  of  all  this  to  his  mother,  but 
when  a  man  is  in  love  there's  only  one 
face  in  the  world  for  him. 

His  senior  year  was  trebly  expensive, 
of  course,  and  the  savings  that  would 
have  almost  sufficed  for  any  other 
entire  year  were  nearly  exhausted  by 
Christmas.  Cuddy  knew  this,  and  she 
was  planning  how  best  to  meet  it. 
The  mortgage  was  clean  lifted  now, 
and  only  half  a  year  more  of  hard 

64 


C  U  DD  Y  '5    BABY 

work  and  saving  lay  between  her  and 
her  boy's  Commencement,  and  then 
he  would  come  home  to  her  again,  and 
take  up  the  lines  she  might  lay  down. 

The  fall  had  been  full  of  discourage- 
ments just  when  she  most  needed 
money,  and  her  own  strength  was 
waning  in  a  troublesome  way.  One 
dry  fall  day,  just  before  Thanksgiving, 
a  disastrous  prairie -fire  had  swept 
over  the  west  ridge  and  licked  up  every 
stack  of  her  precious  alfalfa;  and  a 
little  later  the  cholera  broke  out  among 
the  hogs.  It  seemed  to  Cuddy  that 
money  went  to  pieces  before  her  eyes. 

Added  to  this  was  an  unusual  lone- 
liness and  longing  for  her  Baby  to 
come  home.  She  could  hardly  wait 
for  the  days  to  go  by  and  Christmas 
eve  to  come. 

Two  days  before  Christmas,  Jake 
Basher  brought  over  the  mail. 

"Letter  from  your  boy.  Know'd 
ye'd  want  it.  Reckon  he'll  be  home 
tomorrow.  It's  turnin'  cold.  Looks 
like  a  blizzard  getherin'  up  in  the 
northwest,  sweepin'  in  clear  from  Man- 
itoby.  Good-day,  Mis'  Ferine,  an'  a 
Merry  Christmas  to  ye."  And  he  was 
off. 

The  letter  was  brief.     It  ran : 

"DEAR    CUDDY: — I've    never    been 
away  from  you  at  Christmas-time  be- 
es 


C  U  D  D  F'S    BABY 

fore,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  now,  but 
I'm  invited  to  a  house -party  with  a 
lot  of  our  set,  and  I  do  want  to  go. 
You'll  say  'yes/  Cuddy  sweet-heart, 
because  you  love  your  good-for-nothing 
Baby.  I  feel  like  Judas  Iscariot  to  do 
it,  but,  Cuddy,  I've  got  a  girl  who 
wants  me  to  go — just  like  you  must 
have  asked  my  father  years  ago  when 
you  were  pretty  little  Janet  Meade 
and  Joe  Ferine  was  a  young  man  like 
me.  I've  never  been  to  her  home  yet, 
— just  know  her  at  school. 

"You  are  the  dearest  Cuddy  in  the 
world,  and  I'll  be  home  soon  and  tell 
you  so.  Your  loving, 

'BABY." 

Cuddy  sat  long  by  the  window  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing.  Her  heart  was 
sore.  Her  spirit  bowed  with  the  weight 
of  disappointment.  Never  in  all  his 
twenty-two  years  had  she  risen  on 
Christmas  morning  without  her  Baby 
to  greet  her.  For  eighteen  years  the 
same  stocking  hung  on  the  chimney 
had  served  them  both. 

The  day  had  been  the  one  of  the 
whole  year  when  the  peace  of  the  an- 
gels' message  to  the  shepherds  out  be- 
yond Bethlehem  had  come  into  their 
hearts  and  made  them  rich  in  all  good 
things. 

"It's  not  because  he's  in  love," 
Cuddy  murmured  half  aloud.  "I'd 
be  a  selfish  mother  to  deny  him  the 

66 


C  U  D  D  Y'S    BABY 

best  thing  in  the  world,  though  he  don't 
even  tell  me  her  name  nor  where  she 
lives.  But  it's  to  be  away  at  Christ- 
mas-time, when  I'm  so  lonely,  an'  I 
need  his  advice  about  how  to  make  up 
for  the  hogs  and  the  alfalfa.  But  he 
don't  know  about  that  yet.  I  forgot 
that.  But,  oh,  dear,  I  just  want  him 
because  I  want  him."  She  bowed  her 
head  on  the  kitchen  table  and  the  great 
hot  tears  fell  upon  it. 

At  last  she  stiffened  bravely. 

"You,  poor,  selfish  old  Cuddy,  not 
to  let  your  Baby,  weighin'  a  hundred 
an'  ninety  pounds  now,  get  away  just 
one  Christmas  day.  An'  all  them 
magazines  he  sent  me  to  read,  and  so 
much  to  be  done, — I  just  can't  get 
lonesome.  An'  I  reckon  if  I  do  I  can 
'take  it  to  the  Lord  in  prayer'  as  I've 
done  these  many  years,  an'  never  been 
denied.  He  don't  go  'way  to  spend 
Christmas.  .  .  .  My!  but  it's  gittin' 
cold.  Basher's  right  about  the  bliz- 
zard." 

The  northwest  was  one  gray-black 
frown,  and  a  bitter  air  was  penetrating 
every  crevice  with  its  sharp  breath, 
although  it  was  twenty-four  hours  be- 
fore the  blizzard  in  all  its  fury  fell  upon 
the  Deer  Creek  valley. 

Late  in  the  next  afternoon,  Cuddy, 
who  in  spite  of  her  efforts  went  per- 

67 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

functorily  about  her  tasks,  had  pre- 
pared her  kitchen  for  the  night.  It 
was  a  foolish  thing,  she  knew,  but  she 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  get  out 
the  old  stocking  and  hang  it  as  she  had 
always  done  by  the  stove. 

"He  won't  call  'Rock  Chalk'  to  me 
this  Christmas  vacation,  but  I  must  do 
something  for  old  times'  sake,"  she 
said.  "I've  just  had  to  imagine  good 
things  most  of  my  life:  I  can  do  it  a 
little  more,  I  reckon." 

The  cold  increased  and  a  blizzard 
from  the  northwest  filled  the  air  with 
its  myriads  of  ice-needles.  A  whirl  of 
blinding  snow  swept  over  the  land  so 
fiercely  that  all  unprotected  life  in  its 
pathway  must  perish  before  its  wrath. 
It  rattled  at  the  widow's  doors,  and 
howled  fiendishly  about  her  roof. 

And  then  she  remembered  what  her 
disappointment  and  dulled  senses  had 
driven  out  of  mind,  namely,  that  the 
cattle  must  be  gotten  under  shelter 
somehow.  Without  them  the  Uni- 
versity year  could  not  be  completed. 
It  was  upon  her  to  save  them  at  any 
cost. 

She  hastily  wrapped  herself  in  cloak 
and  hood,  turning  at  the  door  to  take 
one  look  at  her  warm,  clean  kitchen. 
It  was  such  a  cozy  place  at  that  mo- 
ment !  The  stocking  hung  limp  in  its 

68 


C  U  DD  Y  'S    BABY 

annual  place  of  honor.  Her  chair  by 
the  window  was  inviting  to  a  quiet 
rest.  Harold's  picture  in  football  ar- 
ray leaned  against  the  old  clock  on  the 
shelf  whence  the  "vus'ty  penny"  once 
came  forth  to  fill  a  Santa  Claus  mis- 
sion. Should  she  let  the  cattle  go  and 
stay  in  this  warm  place?  Then  Joe 
Perine's  face  in  its  brave  sweetness 
came  back  to  her.  So  he  had  stood 
when  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  came  down 
in  the  waters,  and  so  he  had  gone  out 
to  do  for  her.  She  turned  toward  the 
cold  outside. 

"The  draw's  fillin'  with  snow  now," 
she  said,  "an'  it's  gettin'  dark;  but 
I  must  save  the  cattle  for  my  own 
that's  left."  And  out  into  the  storm's 
bewildering  mazes  she  plunged,  to  do 
for  one  she  loved. 

No  cold  had  ever  chilled  her  so,  as 
back  and  forth  she  plunged  through 
the  drifts.  The  stupid  cattle  were 
huddled  in  a  sheltered  corner  in  the 
far  side  of  the  pasture,  and  the  snow 
was  deepening  about  them.  With 
frantic  effort  their  rescuer  tried  to  drive 
them  toward  the  barn,  wherein  she 
meant  to  herd  them  until  the  storm 
was  over.  They  broke  away  and  ran 
back,  they  charged  this  way  and  that, 
wearing  out  the  strength  of  their  poor 
driver  struggling  to  save  them. 

69 


C U  DD y  '  5    BABY 

At  last  they  were  safely  gathered  in 
and  the  door  fastened,  and  Cuddy, 
numb  with  cold,  started  for  the  house. 
The  snow  blinded  the  way  and  all 
sense  of  direction  was  lost.  Up  the 
fatal  draw  she  floundered,  wondering 
why  she  could  not  find  the  gate  to 
the  yard.  A  drowsiness  was  creeping 
over  her  and  she  suddenly  realized  that 
she,  too,  was  lost  in  sight  of  her  own 
home,  just  as  her  husband  had  been  in 
the  May  flood  eighteen  years  before. 
She  roused  herself  for  one  more  effort, 
but  the  snow-drift  of  the  draw  only  let 
her  sink  farther  into  its  icy  depths, 
and  in  that  minute  she  lived  again 
her  whole  life,  moment  by  moment,  up 
to  this  last  supreme  moment  for  which 
she  waited. 

The  Ancel  home  was  fairly  aglow 
with  Christmas  wreaths,  and  beautiful 
in  its  luxurious  furnishings  and  gay 
with  a  host  of  jolly  young  folks  just 
out  of  school,  turned  loose  for  a  holiday 
vacation.  It  was  high  noon,  and  the 
train,  a  little  behind-time,  as  trains 
will  be  at  this  season,  had  brought  its 
last  load  of  guests  to  this  hospitable 
household. 

At  the  doorway  Muriel  Ancel  had 
just  met  the  last  comer,  a  handsome, 
tall  young  man,  who  did  not  enter. 

70 


C  U  DD  Y'S    BABY 

"But,  Harold,  you  promised  me 
you'd  stay  with  us,"  Muriel  was  saying, 
and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  dis- 
appointment in  her  tone.  Nor  was 
there  any  mistake  about  the  expression 
in  the  dark  blue  eyes  of  the  young 
man. 

"Muriel,"  he  said  gently,  "I  was 
selfish  when  I  promised.  I  wanted 
to  come;  so  much  I  wanted  to;" 
Muriel's  eyes  fell  before  his  glance, 
"but  I  want  more" — his  hand  closed 
gently  over  hers  for  a  moment, — "I 
want  more  to  go  home.  There's  a 
storm  in  the  air;  I  can't  tell  you  why, 
but  I  must  go  home." 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone. 
But  the  look  as  he  turned  away  stayed 
with  Muriel  Ancel  just  as  his  father's 
face  had  been  a  blessed  memory  to  the 
wife  he  loved. 

Harold  plunged  off  on  his  nine-miles 
walk  as  one  whose  feet  had  wings.  He 
would  not  think  of  the  beautiful  home 
and  the  gay  company  of  which  he  had 
had  but  a  glimpse.  A  great  impulse 
urged  him  on. 

"I'm  mighty  glad,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "that  the  wind  is  at  my  back. 
And  I'm  mighty  glad  I  learned  how  to 
run  on  the  football  field,  and  how  to 
walk  mile  after  mile." 

He  beat  his  chest  with  his  gloved 

71 


C U  DD Y  '  S    BABY 

hands  and  laughed  aloud  at  the  storm 
in  the  very  vigor  of  youth  and  strength. 
But  he  had  need  for  these.  The  storm 
increased  and  the  cold  grew  with  it. 

"I  never  was  lost  in  my  life,  just  re- 
member that,  Old  Mr.  Blizzard,"  he 
cried  gaily,  trudging  on  his  way.  But 
with  all  and  all  it  was  the  longest  nine 
miles  he  had  ever  tried  to  cover,  and  it 
was  dark  when  he  reached  the  west 
ridge, — so  dark  he  could  have  doubted 
had  he  not  had  the  assurance  of  youth 
to  carry  him  through.  With  every  mile 
the  Ancel  home  had  faded  from  his 
desire,  and  the  Ferine  home  had  grown 
until  his  very  eagerness  carried  him  on. 

Down  in  the  snow-filled  draw,  Cud- 
dy, fighting  feebly  against  the  blinding 
masses,  was  just  at  the  moment  of 
yielding  to  the  drowsiness  that  makes 
that  way  out  of  life  easy  at  last.  A 
moment,  when  sweet  and  clear  like  an 
angel's  silvery  tone  it  seemed  to  her 
came  the  ringing,  cheery  cry, — the  call 
that  has  been  heard  all  round  the 
world,  from  the  rice-fields  of  the  Phil- 
ippines to  the  Arctic  Circle  off  Green- 
land's coast: 

"Rock  Chalk!  Jay  Hawk!   K.  U.!" 

Again  and  again  it  sounded.     And 

Cuddy,    with   life   once   more   in   her 

grasp,  fought  fiercely  at  the  drifts  that 

72 


C  UDD  Y'S    BABY 

clutched  her  feet.  And  then  the  strong 
arms  of  her  blessed  Baby  gathered  her 
in,  literally  carried  her  through  the 
draw,  and  up  the  white  way  to  the 
kitchen  door. 

The  cold  was  shut  out,  and  in  that 
little  kitchen  there  was  enough  of 
"peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men" 
to  have  warmed  the  heart  of  the  whole 
big  world. 


73 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS 

T  was  on  a  clear  sweet  Christ- 
mas afternoon  that  Harold 
Ferine  and  Muriel  Ancel  were 
married  in  the  quiet  church 
through  whose  stained  win- 
dows a  softened  radiance  of 
sunlight  fell.  The  invited 
guests  were  all  close  personal 
friends,  and  every  appointment  of  that 
wedding  service  was  ideal.  As  the 
bride  and  groom  entered  the  carriage  to 
start  on  their  nine-miles  ride  to  the 
country  home,  the  stone  steps  of  the 
church  suddenly  filled  with  a  crowd 
of  old  schoolmates  from  the  University. 
"Rock  Chalk!  Jay  Hawk!  K.  U.l" 
they  sang  in  chorus  again  and  again, 
until  far  down  the  street  their  voices 
died  away  and  the  two  happy  ones 
could  hear  it  no  more. 

In  the  handsome  new  house  on  the 
west  ridge  Cuddy  Ferine  waited  once 
more  her  Baby's  home-coming.  It 
was  the  happiest  hour  of  her  life. 

1 '  My  boy  has  come  into  his  own  king- 
dom at  last,"  she  said.  "The  'vus'ty' 
he  couldn't  understand  at  first  has 
brought  him  to  be  a  man  among  men, 
and  the  whole  State  is  proud  of  him. 

74 


CUDD  Y'S    BABY 

He'll  do  better  by  his  own  children 
than  I  could  do  for  him,  but  he  couldn't 
have  done  it  without  me  to  help  him  to 
it.  And  the  school  did  all  the  rest. 
It's  more  than  money  and  land. 
Knowledge  and  judgment  and  a  right 
conscience — that  makes  up  real  educa- 
tion. And  now  he's  comin'  home  with 
the  girl  he's  loved  all  these  years.  The 
University  made  him  fit  for  any  place 
in  society,  and  their  friends  are  the 
best  there  is." 

The  carriage  halted  at  the  end  of  the 
long  avenue  leading  up  to  the  house, 
and  once  again  the  old  college  yell, 
first  heard  at  the  game  so  long  ago, 
sounded  across  the  prairie,  a  signal 
from  Cuddy's  Baby: 

"Rock  Chalk!  Jay  Hawk!  K.  U.P 


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